


The Sing of Steel

by allisonpc15



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, Minor Original Character(s), No Smut, POV Gendry, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonpc15/pseuds/allisonpc15
Summary: Takes place after Gendry is saved by Ser Davos and sent off in a row boat.





	1. Chapter 1

So, he rowed. With all this strength he rowed, away from the bleak dark shore that had brought him nothing but misery, towards that one star brighter than all the others; a figure disappearing with every stroke. He actually didn’t know if that was the same star Ser Davos pointed out, but it was the brightest one in the night sky. His blacksmith’s arms didn’t tire too quickly, but the motion was different than the swing of a hammer. It was strange and hard to keep the boat from turning with every stroke, yet he had no other option. All he could think about was rowing, the pull of his biceps and stretch of his shoulders, rhythmic splashes that kept in time with the gentle rocks of the water, little waves lapping up the sides of the boat. Every so often sprays of salt water would caress his face and he relished in those moments of sweet cool relief from the heat and sweat covering his body. It was getting a little lighter across the horizon to his right; he had been rowing the whole night.

  
Gendry stopped. His arms had no feeling, has back ached more than it ever had before, and he could feel his heart pounding in his ribcage. He could no longer see the gloomy black of Dragonstone and released a sigh of relief. He had kept close to shore, like Ser Davos said, so his fear of drowning was almost non-existent. Honestly, drowning was the least of his worries. Fear crept through him, the bite of leeches all over his body, the feel of soft hands on his skin and a chill shot up his spine. He spent almost his entire time in that cell thinking about how stupid he was, thinking a woman like that truly wanted a boy like him. Fury coursed through his veins at that thought of the Red Woman’s intentions. The cunt wanted to burn him alive. And only because his father is Robert Baratheon, the fat, drunk King of Westeros that was killed by a boar, supposedly. He had known the king to revel in hunting out in the Kingswood. He himself had forged many axe and spear heads for that purpose. Master Mott was a favorite of many lords and knights all over the seven kingdoms, but he was also a favorite of the lords in the Royal Court and the King’s Guard. Though the King never came into the shop himself, he had seen him before; in parades through the city and tourneys.

  
His forehead fell into his hands, rubbing his muscles and trying to make sense of the last fortnight. He took a deep breath and looked back up, spied the sack of bread and water and realized he hadn’t opened it the whole night. He took a long drink of water, being careful to not waste any drips down the side of his face. He tore off a small heel of bread and stuck it in his mouth and washed it down with another swig. He had drifted long enough and it was time to get back to rowing. He stopped every so often to drink or eat more, but never let himself rest as long as he did the first time. All he did when he stopped rowing was think, and it wasn’t time to dwell on anything except survival now.

  
A couple hours after high sun, he came upon a little cove with docks in the tide and buildings, huts, tents, and pavilions littering the shoreline. Rook’s Rest. He thought of a straw bed and a warm meal, but Davos told him not to stop, so he reluctantly continued to row, watching the small village fade in the distance. As night fell from the East, he decided he really should stop to rest his throbbing arms for a good long while. He was far enough away now that he felt safer to stop. He tried to tear a piece of bread off, but that was proving much too difficult a task at the moment, so he took bites from the loaf, then wondered why he took the time to tear off pieces in the first place. His mind shifted to Davos, who probably lay in a cell or was burnt to death by now.

  
“Why did ya save me?” He asked aloud, already knowing the answer. _Because it’s right, and I’m a slow learner._ He smirked. It felt weird to speak, his throat feeling raw from lack of use. He opened the skin of water and took another drink. He wiped his face and cleared his throat, wanting to get back to rowing but needing more rest. If he shut his eyes just for a little while, there couldn’t be any harm as long as he didn’t go ashore. He rowed up to a grouping of rocks, hooked a line into a crevice and tied the other end to the boat. He let his body down into the bottom of the boat, slinging his legs over the seat and using the sack of water and bread for his head.

  
He closed his eyes thinking sleep would come easily, but when they shut he saw a little girl, dressed as a boy, staring at him as he was carried off by the Red Witch. _Arry_. He hadn’t thought about her in weeks. Gods, he was stupid to want to leave her— well, to stay with the Brotherhood once she was returned to her mother. He knew he didn’t want to stay with her once she went back to being Arya Stark of Winterfell, but how could he make that stubborn girl understand? She would be forced to be a little lady once again and he would probably never see her anymore, never be able eat or train with, nor even talk to her. He would go back to being a smith for the King in the North who would probably end up selling him to the next person who wanted him, without a question asked. He knew she wouldn’t want that to happen, probably go out of her way to try and save him in some stupid, reckless way. She was good. A good soul and a good human. That should have meant more to him than not wanting to serve her brother. But he was stupid. Stupid in that moment to not see that. She’s probably with her mother right now, headed back to the safety of Winterfell. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a quick smile at the thought of her home, then they went back down. He was headed back to King’s Landing. He knew none of the Starks would ever set foot in that city ever again and he would never see her again. Never be able to explain. A pang of guilt erupted though his body, filling him with dread. His heart hurt, like it never had before. He never had a family and she was the only person who ever stuck around. She didn’t want him to leave her, ever and he broke her heart. He huffed and opened his eyes, a small tear trickling down into the hairline above his ear. She was his only family and he chose to leave it.

  
“I’m sorry,” he uttered, trying to control the stinging in his eyes. He sat up, frustrated and not really knowing how to deal with all this sudden, horrible emotion. He needed to hit something, so he opted for the rock next to him, and instead of his hammer, his fist. His knuckles were bloody on the first impact, but it did nothing to deter the anger he felt, so he kept hitting. Upon inspection, he definitely broke a knuckle or two, yet he cared not. He unhooked the line from the rock, and began to row, feeling the broken bones shift with every stroke. He welcomed the pain, reveled in it actually. He deserved nothing but pain for leaving his family. Maybe death by fire was what he deserved. And he ran away from that too, like a craven. He always believed he was a brave man, sticking up for others and being able to hold his own in a fight. Only now did he realize what a coward he truly was. He stopped rowing and hung his head in shame, and for the first time since his childhood, he sobbed. Tears kept spilling and his breath came in ragged. The minutes passed, yet the sobs kept coming, each struggling intake of air filling him with more and more hatred of himself. He contemplated throwing himself over, giving himself to the sea and releasing him from the pain. He had never thought that before, not even while sleeping in the mud at Harrenhal nor when waiting to be burned at the stake. That scared him more than anything. He shook it from his mind, not even wanting to go to that dark, dark place; his shock at the turn drying his eyes. He went back to rowing, only stopping every so often eat, drink, and relieve himself.


	2. Chapter 2

By the second day of non-stop rowing, he was nodding off between strokes, his arms barely even able to lift up the oars. It was late in the afternoon with dusk rolling in over the sea and his water skin was almost empty, the bread gone earlier this morning. He stayed put for a long while, staring at nothing and drifting out to sea. Suddenly, a loud horn blew off from a short distance and Gendry’s head snapped up in that direction. He saw a galley, black with white sails, flying an unfamiliar banner impossibly close. How had he not noticed it? Coming towards him however was a row boat, just like his, and it carried two grungy looking men, one with his sword unsheathed.

                “Who d’ya serve?” The one in the back shouted, in a way that looked hopeful for the wrong answer. Without skipping a beat, due to his exhausted state, he strained out his reply.

                “Robert Baratheon.”

                The mouth of the speaker opened up into a full toothed grin, his teeth rotten or gone completely. The one sitting let out a cackle and turned his head to get a look at him.

                “Aye boy, but slain by a pig, we ‘ear.”

                He had to think way too quickly for his state, “I refuse t’believe that.”

                “Good lad” the first man said, gathering a rope from the bottom of their boat then tossing one end into Gendry’s. “Tie this line t’yours, we’ll row ya t’the ship.”

                Once aboard the galley, the man turned his tanned, wrinkled face to look at Gendry, thrusting forth a sturdy, bare arm to grasp his. He had grey hair, so long it was tied in the back and still hit his low back. His beard was just as grey and just as long. His eyes though, seemed familiar. They were blue, as blue as a summer sky and piercing like ice. He returned the gesture, and discovered the man to be the captain of the ship.

                “I can’t give ya a cabin, boy, but they’ll be plentya hammock down below.”

                “Thank you, anythin’ is better than out there.”

                “Runnin’ from the crown?” The man was staring very intently.

                “Somethin’ like that, I guess.” He looked down, not divulging that his head was wanted by two crowns.

                “Well, any man that don’t be believing that Joffery cunt should be King is welcome on my ship. Where were ya headed, lad?” He continued to size up Gendry.

                “Back to King’s Landing, I suppose. Hide right under their noses.”

                “Smart lad.”

Gendry huffed out a laugh, “Not my idea really.”

“Well, lucky you, we ‘ave a shipment from Lys headed fer the capital. So we mustn’t need smuggle ya in,” he laughed.

                “Many thanks Ser.”

                “Captain. Captain Storm. No Ser.”

                Gendry kept his eyes down and away, not knowing what else to do when reprimanded by authority. The bastard captain just studied him, looking at his face, his hair, eyes, chest. Like he was seeing something that wasn’t real.

                “Sup with me in my cabin t’night. I want t’speak more with ya,” and with that, he strode off towards the back of the ship. The sounds of the sea were all around him. He heard the bootsteps and shouts of men at work, the whip from ropes and sails dancing in the wind. Gendry was ushered down into the bowels, where he was shown his bunk and given some salt fish and bitter ale. It tasted like a feast and his mouth watered for the meal he would be given later. He took off his cape and sat down in the hammock, slowly relaxing each muscle in hopes not to fall out. He took a deep breath began to wrap his now swollen and bruised knuckles with rips of rough spun fabric. The weariness was settling on him quickly in the dank dark of the ship. He allowed the hammock to completely swallow him, and he drifted off into a light rest. What seemed like only seconds later, the same man who showed him his bunk and gave him the fish was rustling him to wake.

                “Cap’n will see ya now, boy,” he gurgled. Gendry left the comfort of his bunk, redonned the cape and headed out into the crisp night air. It started to rain and he mindlessly thanked the stranger for bringing this ship. He followed the sailor across the deck, towards the rear of the ship, where identical doors to the cabins stood. The sailor went to the one furthest on the left and knocked subtly. It opened, the captain in the entryway, silently beckoning him to enter. He had been impatiently waiting. He passed through the threshold into the captain’s quarters as the door was being forcefully shut, leaving the two of them alone. It was dark and musty, light only coming from three candles on the table on which was a platter of salt fish, a bowl of lemons, and the same bitter ale. He disregarded his sudden feeling of disappointment at not seeing water; this was more than he could have prayed for.

                “Sit boy, n’eat all ya can. We’re gettin’ more when we make port two days’ time.” Gendry did, fully aware of the eyes he knew were on him. He could feel the scrutiny of the captain, wondering why he took such an interest in him. A flash of panic pulsed through him and he began to question this man’s allegiance. Then he spoke, and shock pulsed instead.

                “So- What is Robert’s bastard doin’ on a row boat headed fer the capital? And don’t lie t’me, boy, I’ll know it when ya do. Ya don’t need t’fear me.”

                After many dreadful moments, Gendry, too tired to even think of a believable way out of the truth, let out long sigh and answered him honestly. He told him everything, Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, going to the Night’s Watch, then the Red Witch. He watched the captain’s face during the whole tale and he felt like he could trust him with the whole truth. Gendry recalled Arry as well.

                “So, I grew up my whole life thinkin’ my father is some lowborn drunk, and then I’m told he’s not. He’s a highborn drunk, a King, and I’m wanted by two other Kings because of it. It’s fucked,” with that he finished, wanting to show this captain how much his life had changed in such a short amount of time. What followed was uncomfortable silence. The captain just looked at him, clearly in deep thought about what to say.

                “Well, I- I’m yer uh- kin, I s’pose,” the captain broke. “M’father was Steffon Baratheon, father t’King Robert.”

                Gendry really looked at the old man sitting across from him. He saw it now, felt it, really. His eyes were familiar because they were his own. Had his hair been black like it once was, he would have seen it immediately. Gendry just had to ask.

                “Do ya know anythin’ about my father?”

                “Robert? Aye, I do. Every time I’d come back ‘ere from somewhere off, there’d be some new story of how yer father destroyed some stupid cunt in battle with that Warhammer o’his. Then one time, after comin’ back from th’Summer Isles, we came t’King’s Landing with spices, and we got a new King. A true King. He was strong, boy. A fighter.” He then relayed stories and tales of victories and defeats in battle, his prowess at tourneys and melees. All the while, Gendry stuffed his face and drunk his fill, listening to the glory of the father he never knew. A new sense of pride swelled within him, starting in his chest and fanning out into the tips of his fingers and toes. Or maybe that was just the ale.

                “‘Ours is the Fury.’ Those be our fathers’ words, lad, and they be true. The fury of Robert Baratheon almost destroyed Westeros n’it fully destroyed the Targaryen’s. Almost every single one of them killed.”

                “Why?”

                “’Cause th’Dragon Prince stole his woman away. Raped n’murdered her. Stark was ‘er name.”

                “Stark,” he whispered, realizing how small the world really is.

                “Aye, Lyanna Stark. A Northron beauty with th’temper of a direwolf. She was fighter too, just like Robert. Pity.” Gendry thought of the Stark he knew, Arya. Arry. She was a fighter and just like a direwolf. He couldn’t really think she was that pretty though, let alone a Northron beauty; he only knew her as a little girl pretending to be a boy. He sighed out a smile, thinking of her temper. The captain continued on.

                “Th’whole rebellion was ‘cause o’that. He never even got ‘er back, boy, but he did get th’kingdom.” By now, all the salt fish and ale were gone, and the captain started to slice a lemon and suck on the juices. It seemed like the conversation was over which delighted Gendry, whose head was now swimming. They sat in silence, thinking, with only the sound of the captain getting every drop of vitamins. Both of their cheeks and noses had turned rosy, the captain having a network of red veins becoming more and more visible with the passing seconds.

                A huge yawn escaped Gendry. “Well, get on down n’get some rest. Sleep all ya like t’morrow, I won’t put ya t’work yet.” He nodded and led himself out after a farewell, and crossed the slippery deck back down into the ship to his bunk. He collapsed within the hammock, it feeling like a featherbed. He thought of Robert Baratheon, his father and mighty warrior, as he drifted off into a deep sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Gendry awoke feeling every single muscle in his arms and back ache, his hand throbbing, and his head pounding from the ale; he did not feel good at all. He needed fresh air, and soon, or else he might retch all over himself. Struggling to sit upright, he used all the strength, his weak feeling arms could barely muster to pull himself erect as he swung his feet onto the wooden floor boards. He rushed as quick as he could, bounding up the creaky stairs into the early afternoon sun. He flung himself to the closest railing and retched bile over the side. The captain came over, clapped him on the back, and let out a hearty laugh.

“Aha, lad! I see yer not like yer father after all!”

“I need water is all,” Gendry wiped his mouth.

“So do I, but we didn’t collect much last night n’won’t be getting’ more ‘til port. Drink this.” He shoved a skin towards him and he filled his mouth with ale, desperate for anything to quench his thirst and rid the foul taste in his mouth. “We’ll be there not t’morrow but th’next morrow, then ya can get yer water.” Gendry took another swig of ale, feeling a bit more stable in his stomach. A few moments passed in mutual quiet as both men stared out towards open ocean, gulls soaring through the air, warm breeze shaking out his hair, a waning cliff a couple leagues behind them.

“What’s that?”

“Sharp Point. Enterin’ Blackwater Bay right ‘bout now.”

“The Red Woman brought me this way, I think. Don’t really remember much of anythin’ after she told me about my father.”

There wasn’t really much to say to that, he guessed. What do you say to that? They continued to stare off into the horizon, Gendry breathed in the salt air. He actually felt refreshed, his head had stopped pounding. He grabbed the skin and took another drink, already feeling steady and a bit stronger. He turned to the captain, gave a nod and went off in search of something to do. He didn’t want to seem like he thought their help and his passage was free. When he was about to approach the man whom had showed him to the captain’s quarters the night previous, a hand grabbed his shoulder to halt his advance. He turned to the captain.

“Yer welcome t’stay on n’sail, if ya want. Yer a good lad, and I’d keep ya safe from that witch cunt n’the boy who calls himself King. Maybe in a couple years you’d get yerself a cabin. Be captain yerself someday, I’d see to it.” He really thought about it. He’d never dreamed of sailing before, never thought about a life on the ocean. He also never dreamed anything that had happened to him in the past few years would have ever happened, honestly. This sounded thrilling and new. A new life is what he needed and it was standing before him awaiting a reply. He opened his mouth, but no true words actually came out. He stopped his mouth from moving to compose his thoughts and it shifted to Arry, unannounced. She was in Westeros and someday she will need him. He had to go to King’s Landing.

He took a deep breath before replying. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have t’go home.” Someday, he’ll go home, but for now, he just had to get ashore. He couldn’t waste time out on the sea.

“That’s a big shame,” the captain strode off in a huff, clearly insulted by Gendry’s refusal. He felt bad, he did. The man was sort of like family, blood, but he couldn’t deny who his real family was, and he would not have a change of heart again. He vowed to the Seven that he would never leave his family again if he found it.   
Looking around him, he didn’t really know what to do, no longer feeling a part of the people around him like he had moments earlier. What was he thinking? He was a smith, not a sailor. He needed to get to King’s Landing. He went back below deck, feeling useless and not wanting to be in the way anymore. He sat in his hammock, gently leaning back until he was encased inside, where he stayed for the duration of the trip. He dreamed for landfall.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days passed and King’s Landing finally came to view. The tallest towers of the Red Keep popped up first along the world’s natural curve. He held tightly onto the railing as more and more of the castle came into view. He took deep breaths as the city became clearer and clearer to him and glanced down at the bones of war galleys littering the water beneath. Soon, he could make out the fish market next to the Mud Gate and see merchants tying up small boats with cargo intended for trade. Once the ship was safely in harbor the anchor was dropped and he along with the captain lifted off in one boat, while some other crew members went with the cargo in another. He couldn’t help the sudden spike in his heart and the breaths that came quicker. He was headed back to the lion’s den to hide amongst them. The minutes passed as they headed for the beach and then, with a jolt, the boat hit the shoreline, forcing Gendry to brace himself on the side of it. His foot splashed into the sandy water, and he breathed in the smell of salt and human shit. King’s Landing had such a particular stench that no person could ever truly forget or get used to. They walked towards the gate which was crawling with the Gold Cloaks. He felt heat throughout as blood rushed to his face and he started to involuntarily heave in quick breaths. The panic proved to be a bit much. The captain sensed this and grabbed Gendry’s hood and thrust it over his head.

                “Keep yer head down, boy. Don’t let ‘em see yer eyes.” He focused on the mud in front of him, allowing the captain to take the lead, and sending a silent plea to the Crone to clear his path ahead. One of the guards approached, his hand instinctively at rest on the pommel of is sword.

                “What’s your business in the Capital, you?

                “My son n’me have some business near River’s Row, n’me crew’s coming in now with cargo from Lys headed straight fer th’Street of Silk. No doubt ya heard of that place, aye?”

                The guard smirked, “Aye. Three coppers each to enter the gates. Keep your weapons sheathed, the both of you. Any blood spilt will earn you a stay in the black cells.”

                “M’thanks, ser. Come, lad.” Just like that, they were through the gates.

Gendry was back in this stinking shithole he’s known his whole life. _I miss the woods._ Once inside, the captain hooked a left onto the Street of Steel. The clang of metal was music to his ears, the familiarity calming his nerves and helping him settle into the noise and people.

The captain stopped at the top of the street, right under Visyena’s Hill and the Great Sept of Balor then turned. “This where I leave ya, lad. Don’t be gettin’ into any trouble now. Stay out of sight.”

                “Thank ya. I owe ya my strength n’many days, captain.”

                “Just don’t be stupid,” and he stalked back the way the two of them came, leaving Gendry alone amongst the clang and ring of steel. Though nothing had changed from what he could remember, everything was different. Where familiar shops had been before now stood occupied by strangers. Instead of ornate armor, sturdy breastplates, custom shields, or jeweled scabbards in every single shop now basic military longswords filled the racks, being forged one after the other. Another shop down the lane seemed to be tasked with constructing Lannister armor, lobster plating in waiting for assembly. The Street of Steel was partially a factory for the Lannisters. He was stunned and furious over the amount of influence these fuckers had over the people. He passed by a shop he used to visit many times as a young boy on errands for his master and stepped through the large entrance. Back near the anvil, the owner stood, pounding orange steel into sharp arrow tips. Gendry didn’t recognize him.

                “I’ve been away for some time. What’s been amiss? Armoring Lannisters I see.”

                “Tywin Lannister is back, saved th’city from that Baratheon cunt.” Gendry’s hands clamped into fists, wanting to throw them into this man’s face. But he controlled himself, took a breath and asked if his old Master, Tabho Mott, was still working. “Still forging on th’other side of th’hill,” and before that sentence was finished, Gendry was already out of the shop, headed down the familiar allies towards the home he once had.


	5. Chapter 5

The shutters were the same, as was the heavy woolen tarp above the threshold used to shelter the wares. The same craftsmanship was on every single blade, dirk, and lance as they lay displayed atop luxurious rugs from the east, separating them from the dirt. Master Mott could afford it though; he looked to be just as popular as he’d been years earlier, and not under the influence of the Crown. The grunt he heard every day from age five to seven-and-ten came from a room in the back, where he kept his precious stones and materials for his ornate work. Gendry moved from the door to the room where he saw his old master sitting on a stool at his workbench, a thick magnified glass over one eye, giving him a closer look. He was delicately dropping rubies and sealing them within the golden ornate carved pictures, hammering into place along the hilt of a thin, stunted Longsword, ripples within the steel itself. _Valyrian Steel_.

                “Where’d ya steal it?” He jested. He was truly happy to see a familiar man amongst so much uneasy change. Master Mott raised his head, removing the glass to focus his eyes on the black-haired boy before him. A look of disbelief fell upon his face, not understanding why his old apprentice was there.

“You were for the Wall, boy. I sent you t’the Wall.”

                “The Gold Cloaks found me first.”

                The corners of his mouth pulled down. He looked ashamed for some reason, like it was his fault they found him. “How’d you escape?”

                “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told ya th’truth. It doesn’t make sense t’me either.” After a moment, his old master crooked his eyebrow in expectation. His story spilled out starting with Lord Stark this time, but omitting…her. Her name wasn’t safe here. Once he got to the truth of his father, he made his voice but a whisper. This piece of information was essential to his story, she wasn’t. Not to the outside world at least. He still wanted to protect her.

                “That’s why I sent ya off lad, even if I didn’t want t’lose your labor. I’ve known since the first day I took you in.”

                “Why didn’t ya tell me?”

                “You didn’t need t’know. Not yet anyways. But once that boy-king sent out the decree, I knew you’d be found. That man from the Night’s Watch took you without question, and once at the Wall, I knew you’d be out of danger. Please believe me boy, I never wanted you gone.”

                “I know,” still not fully knowing how to process the confession. He moved to the sword. “Who’s that for?”

                “King Joffery Baratheon is wedding the lovely Margery Tyrell from Highgarden. Tywin Lannister himself commissioned me t’design the hilts. The other is for the Kingslayer.” Gendry turned to see the shorter sword’s twin, longer and thicker with less rubies and more weight. Gorgeous, even if it was for the Lannisters.

                “Where’d he find the Valyrian Steel?”

                “Lord Tywin was in possession of a grandiose sword. You’ve seen it before in this very shop. It belonged t’Lord Stark and changed houses when he turned traitor.” Gendry felt the Baratheon fury again. Knowing the man like he did now, knowing the child he fathered, his death was cruel and wrong. Arry was right to seek vengeance.

                “So, you’re working for the Lannisters now too? Seems t’me this whole fucking place is for the Lannisters.”

                “A lot has changed. There are only three kings left in this war, and that boy is winning,” he pointed a finger towards the Red Keep.

                “Three?” Only three kings? He knew Lord Renly was slain, heard it when he was with the Brotherhood. He heard the voice of Stannis, listing off his enemies while tossing leeches into the brazier. _The Usurper Robb Stark. The Usurper Balon Greyjoy. The Usurper Joffery Baratheon._ His own blood bursting from the leeches and sizzling in the flames. His blood killed a King and it wasn’t Joffery. Somehow, he knew the answer.

                “Robb Stark along with his Lady Mother were murdered at the Twins. The Red Wedding, they seem t’be calling it. Those Frey’s never been the most honorable.” His master continued to explain the massacre, but Gendry heard none of it. The floor disappeared beneath him and his legs gave out. Arry. She wasn’t safe, she wasn’t home. She either died with them or is still with the Brotherhood. Without him to watch her back. So many emotions, all negative, swam through his body, bombarding every corner and nerve in his body. He saw her dead; throat slit with her breeches all the way down her bloody legs. He couldn’t breathe. His open palm pounding the floor and cursing the Maiden, Mother, and bloody Father. How could they not protect her? He needed to find her, he needed to ride back to the Riverlands and rescue her from everyone who would harm her, or find her body so he could put her to rest at the least. He stood and stormed out, grabbing a dirk to sell for a good horse to take him as fast as he could. He could hear Master Mott yelling after him, but nothing could stop him. He headed north towards the Gate of the God’s to get straight on the King’s Road. He passed close to the Lion’s Gate, to get a horse in a nearby stable. When he was about to enter, a strong hand clamped on his shoulder, pulled it back roughly and slammed him into the stone wall next to them, Gendry’s head snapping back and cracking into the stone. It was the captain from the ship. He hadn’t left yet.

                “I told ya not t’do anythin’ stupid, boy!” He growled, giving a hard punch to his shoulder.

                “I have to! I have t’save her. Let me go! I need t’go find her!” He struggled against the man’s grip, wishing he had been quicker than this man.

                “She’s dead boy, dead or will be before ya can find ‘er! Let ‘er go.”

                Gendry stopped and shoved the captain with all his might. “I’m the only one who can find her!” He finally broke the man’s grip and started running, but he felt a fist grab onto his hair and yank him back to the wall.

                “You won’t survive if ya start a war fer ‘er corpse. Stay ‘ere, boy. Don’t be stupid. You’ll avenge ‘er death one day. But not t’day. Ya ‘ear me boy!” He forced his eyes into Gendry’s, utter seriousness and maybe some fear within. There was no way he’d let Gendry out of this city.

Gendry slumped down against the wall, thrusting the dirk into the ground between his legs, over and over again until the blade was ruined and a small hole was now within the cobbled street. Unwanted tears stung his eyes but he wiped them away before they fell.

                “Go back t’where ya belong, lad, n’pound that fury into steel. Train yerself, every day, t’get ready fer the wars t’come. Don’t make one yerself. Go. Now.” Without another word, the captain lifted Gendry to his feet and shoved him off in the direction he came from, glaring from behind as a warning to do what he said. So Gendry went.

                He didn’t remember the way he went, the faces he saw, nor the sounds he heard. Time seemed to stop as he made his way to the only home he’d ever have. He couldn’t think about anything other than her dead corpse and the horror in which death found her. The image was seared into his mind and he saw it everywhere on the street; a beggar napping on a bench or a whore lounging outside her room. He felt lost and incomplete. He didn’t really feel like anything mattered anymore, his plans or his dreams nor the hope for family and peace. He continued to trudge on, feeling nothing but immense regret. Back in the shop, Master Mott was at work on the King’s Valaryian Steel sword. His head shifted to Gendry when he heard his footsteps.

                He handed over the ruined dirk, “I can fix it, hammer it back into shape n’re-sharpen the blade. I’ll restore th’handle too, Master Mott. I’ll work for ya again.” Defeat and anger were plaguing his features, forcing him to serve again. For now.


	6. Chapter 6

At his master’s insistence, he took a blade to his hair. It was well past his ears and black as a raven. With it shorter, it could pass for dark brown. He also forced Gendry to cover his build, not wanting to draw too much attention to his Baratheon strength. _We won’t take any chances, my boy._ After almost a fortnight, the pain of Arry still did not dwindle; only strengthened. He still thought about her almost every night whilst downing a flagon of ale. After a while sleep stopped coming. He had to challenge and force his mind to stop thinking of her, so he kept himself busy. Some mornings after he started up the forge for the day he headed down to a market, a few streets away from Master Mott’s shop, for a bowl of brown. When he had the luxury to buy one, he thought of Ser Davos. He missed that old man and he was easier to remember. Then he headed back to the forge to work endlessly until sundown.

                At almost high sun, Master Mott came bounding into the shop. Gendry was impressed by the old man’s quickness. “Turn your back to the street, Gendry, and don’t speak unless Lord Tywin asks anything of you. Even then, just nod or shake your head. And don’t look up, keep your eyes on your feet. He’ll be here soon for the swords.” He did as was bid, dreading the thought of Tywin Lannister within his reach and not being able to put a sword through his heart. But he pounded his fury into the steel, making it sing, releasing the anger. It was the only way he could get past unwanted feelings.

                Not but an hour later, Lord Tywin was inside the shop, his back turned from Gendry, inspecting his master’s craftsmanship.

                “Good,” was all he said after staring at it for a long time. He thrust fifty gold dragons into Master Mott’s hands, and gave a small glance towards the young man at the anvil. Gendry could feel his eyes. However, no quicker did he feel them then did they go away, back towards his white horse and to the Keep. He slid the swords into the horse’s pack and swung into the saddle with ease. With a kick of his heels, he rode off north to curve around the Great Sept before heading back to the castle. His master tossing the bag of coins to Gendry, thumping him in the chest.

                “Keep it. For a shop someday. For payment too. Hide it good.” He kept it the safest place he knew, on his person.

                After that, Gendry’s life became boring. For a good portion of a month, he forged blade after blade, spearhead after spearhead, from dawn until dusk. He worked, ate, sometimes slept and hardly left any time to think. While Gendry did the hard labor, Master Mott tasked himself with the intricacies and detailing on every weapon sold in his shop. He admired him for his patience. That was something Gendry didn’t possess. The only reason he was a decent smith was because he had a lot of anger to release and he didn’t stop. His life had never been easy, but it turned into a nightmare rather quickly. He had to get it out somehow. When he was working on his last blade of the day, the bells from the Red Keep began to toll, the one atop the Sept joining soon after. He looked to his master, who was uttering under his breath and grabbing his cloak and walking stick.

                “Stay here. I’ll be back with news.”

                “What’s happenin’?”

                “You stupid boy,” he threw at him as he left his shop, heading for the steps of the Great Sept in haste. Insulted, Gendry thrust the hammer against the anvil wondering why he was so short. Probably because of the bloody bells. _Gods I am fucking stupid._ The last time he heard the bells in King’s Landing, Ned Stark was being executed, or was it when his father was murdered? Something bad had happened. He placed the sword back in the flames, since it had cooled too much to hammer properly, then placed it back on the anvil and began to pound. He had finished the sword and was placing it in the rack after buffing and polishing when Master Mott reentered the shop. His face was long and exhausted. “The King is dead. Poisoned by his uncle at his wedding feast. We’ll have a younger king on the morrow.” With nothing further, his master then when back to work, retreating to the familiarity of his craft.

                Gendry’s head could have exploded. Once his master had retired to his quarters above the shop, he chucked the hammer towards the wall, impaling the rotting wood with the head. _The Usurper Joffery Baratheon,_ he heard Stannis declare, tossing a leech into the brazier. Another King dead because of him. Because of his stupidity. King Joffery really hadn’t the right to be king, in his mind, but he didn’t deserve to die by blood magic. Disgusted, he cleaned up his tools, moved around the coals, and crossed over to the cot in the corner. He crawled under the blankets, not needing them with the heat but for the comfort. He didn’t feel like a good person, he had bastard blood after all. He felt like a curse upon the world, only there to do harm. He shifted to his back and stared at the ceiling above him. His mind was blank, only feeling self-hatred and contempt course through his veins. He couldn’t lie still anymore; when his mind moved darkly like this, his body just had to move too. He sat up and crossed over to the hundreds of weapons at his disposal. _I might as well start now._ It was time to train.

                The weapons were almost all swords. Some spears and daggers mixed in, but swords were the weapon of choice amongst the knights of Westeros. He barely felt comfortable with a sword, never could figure out a bow, but he’d have to start somewhere. He spied a broadsword, with a green tinted hilt and when he picked it up felt it had a decent balance that he could get used to with practice. He was about to turn and head outside when a large black rock previously hidden behind it caught his eye. It looked like the cliffs on Dragonstone. He went over to look at it more carefully when he realized it was attached to a long handle. It was a dark steel hammer. A Warhammer with little decoration and black stained oak for the handle. The sword dropped from his hands and Gendry gripped the handle, holding the weapon and feeling the full force this was capable of. He brought the hammer close to his chest, his other hand choking up closer to the head. It was heavy, but he was strong. His fists tightened as he shifted the full weight into perfect balance. _A Warhammer was my father’s weapon of choice…_

                With this newfound courage, he strode out of the shop towards the King’s Gate where the bells were still tolling. There used to a be a tiny yard where he used to fight with other little boys. It was still there, looking a little worse for wear, but it would do. He walked to where a tree once stood, now in it’s place a stump. He figured he best find out what he could do first, then he’d be better able to assess where to begin. In front of the stump, he gripped the Warhammer. In one swift, complete motion, he thrust it over his head, positioning the weight just, so that the full force would come down through the head of the weapon. With all his strength, he brought down the hammer to land in the middle of the stump and with a thunder and a crack the stump split into several difference pieces, each splaying out like the rays of the sun. The core of the stump still stood, however it was many inches shorter, a little blown out in the middle with the indentation of the hammer head perfectly center. Off somewhere in the city, dogs began to bark and he heard a child start to wail. Strength wouldn’t be an issue, nor would his handling. _A Warhammer will be my weapon of choice_.

                He needed to finesse his skill. It was one thing to know how to use the weapon, but he needed to be able to use it on moving, thinking opponents one day. He needed to be able to think as well, and quicker. He started with foot work, figuring out the best place to hold his center while still being able to move wherever he needed. Advancing, retreating, lunges, pivots; it didn’t take his body long to tell him what felt right or wrong. He absently gave praise to the Warrior for blessing him so fully. Within a couple hours he had fell in a rhythm with calculated steps and fluid movements of the hammer, ending each move with a swing, careful to not use his full force lest he injure himself. Soon, the night sky began to turn grey and he knew dawn was approaching. He’d been training for a long while. He headed back towards the shop, the hammer slung over his shoulder. He felt a surge of confidence and pride with this weapon, like it was an extension of his manhood or something. He smiled at himself, and strode his way back to his cot. He was able to get a couple hours’ sleep before Master Mott awoke him to begin a new day.


	7. Chapter 7

The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, was charged, tried, and found guilty of regicide, though he escaped the night before his execution, much to the Hand’s dismay. He killed Lord Tywin before he fled. Cersei vowed to give a Lordship to whomever brought her his head. She accused Sansa Stark, who had fled as well. Apparently, there was a trial by combat, but he really didn’t care too much about the bloody thing to attend. The king was now a child with a twice widowed wife, the Queen Margery.

Over a year went by since his return to King’s Landing and so much had happened, yet the days and nights stayed the same for him. During the light, he would work, forging endlessly, forgetting himself in the steel. When the sun slept, he would train. By himself, he would head to the yard, Warhammer in tow, and practice. Every night he would get better, finally completing an intricate, deadly move or adding extra steps in order to fake out his would-be opponent. His confidence in himself would rise on every journey back to the shop. He noticed he was changing too. His hair was still short, but his face matured, his jaw now firm and squaring off, thick muscles broadening his face and brow and building onto the expanse of his chest. A beard came in too, but since that was black as his hair, he kept his face clean save for stubble. He hardly slept, three hours, at most, every night, but he truly didn’t care. He would sleep in death. He had more important things to focus on.

                One night, near the end of practice, he had just finished his final swing when he decided to call it quits for rest. He swung the hammer on his shoulder, and took a step towards the shop, when from around a thatched roof building, a figure, clad in a long black robe, crossed chains around his torso, and a weapon in his hand, stepped from the shadows and stalked straight towards him. In his forehead was carved the Seven Pointed Star. Without a moment of thought, Gendry readied himself, head of the hammer pointed at the ground, waiting to swing towards its target, standing sideface. Then all around him, from the shadows cast by the moonlight, identical clad men strode towards Gendry, each with a blunt weapon designed to maim. Clearly outnumbered, he changed his stance to a less threatening yet still intimidating way, two hands clasped onto his hammer, facing the leader head on, who opened his mouth to speak.

                “Do you pray?”

                “What?” _What the hell was he talking about?_

                “Do you pray?”

                “Sometimes, I guess.” He still stood poised for an attack, keeping his periphery aware whilst fully locked onto the man before him.

                “To whom do you pray and when?”

                Gendry paused, not knowing their intentions, yet still feeling threatened by their questions. They were scarred with the Seven Pointed Star, so he knew their choice of faith. He answered honestly, but he had to think, “I uh- blessed the Stranger when I was found while alone at sea n’uh-- I asked the Crone t’safely get me in this city. And I pray t’the warrior every night, here,” gesturing with his chin to what was in his fists.

                “What of the Mother or Maiden?”

                “They betrayed me. Don’t really feel like talkin’ t’them.”

                The man’s eyes narrowed. “The Father?”

                “Never had a father.”

                “And the Smith?”

                “I am one, so I worship him from sun up t’sun down.”

                The radical smiled. “We are the Faith Militant, sent from the Seven to protect this city from harm and sin. We will not harm you, servant of the Smith.” The rest of his crew lowered their weapons one by one, while Gendry did not. He didn’t trust the look in this man’s eyes nor the fake words spilling from his tongue.

                “Sent from the Gods or the Crown?”

                “The Seven told the Crown to employ us to patrol and protect the city. Our High Sparrow will soon be the High Septon and crime will be eliminated. The streets will be safe for all to worship in collective peace. You should join us.”

                “I won’t work for th’Crown. They’re th’most harmful thing in this city.”

                “The Crown is not exempt from sin. They will find their punishment soon. I guarantee that. Cersei of House Lannister is a sinner just like the common folk, she who has done horrible things and she who will suffer, eventually, when the Gods command it.”

                “Opened her cunt too many times, is it?”

                “Yes.” He took many steps closer until he was but a foot away. “And killed a King.” The world stopped. Gendry puffed his chest and gripped his weapon tighter. “King Robert,” he stepped forward, now whispering. “I helped her do it.”

                Fury erupted through him, his body instinctively poised for the charge, but a voice told him to stop. To breath. He did so, and the anger subsided enough for him to collect his thoughts. This wasn’t it, he felt. This wasn’t his fight. He relaxed his muscles and took a couple paces away as the militant continued on.

                “I gave him strongwine over his favorite Dornish Red. By high sun he was quite drunk, and by the time we came across the boar, I’m sure his vision and mind were black. I’ve repented and suffered because of it, regretting every day I gave to that woman. I swore to the Gods to reveal this vile woman’s secret for all to know.” He actually seemed troubled by his past, shamed to reveal the truth.

                Gendry just stood there fuming, saying nothing. If he did, he was sure the wrong thing would come out and a brawl would ensure, ending in many deaths most likely. He chose to quietly glare, hoping these fuckers would leave his presence immediately. Finally, after the seconds ticked by like hours, the murdering servant of the Gods ended the intense stare down with a nod to the others. They all moved behind him, like a pack of dogs, facing Gendry.

                “If you wish to join us, we could use a smith. You’ll find us as the Sept,” and with that they turned and silently slunk back into the shadows to prowl on another innocent person.

Every day after that night, he saw groups of this so-called Faith Militant patrol King’s Landing, hitting every street once every hour. There were hundreds of the freaks in every corner and every alley; you couldn’t look anywhere in the city without seeing them. As the weeks went on, the city fell more and more into the controlling hands of the Sparrows. He saw men who he knew to be as faithless as any suddenly praying many times a day, quivering in fear as the black robed threats thundered by, striking beggars at random instead of showing mercy. These men weren’t here for their Gods, they were here to rule. And rule they did.

In no time, word spread like wildfire that Cersei Lannister has been imprisoned by the High Sparrow and charged with fornication. Why she wasn’t charged with regicide he would never know. The pleasure he felt when thinking about that wretched whore wasting in a cell was the best thing he had felt in a long while. His work really prospered after that, not believing it could get better from good emotions. His skills as a fighter still continued to get better as well. After that first meeting with them, many had come back the night after, asking to train in secret with him. He accepted, not wanting their company but needing to start working with moving targets, plus, he didn’t really care if he hit them in the process. He used all his strength on them, never relenting when they tripped up, injuring a few now and again. He hit harder and harder every night, and as a result, they got better as well, stronger and deadlier. They bludgeoned an old woman to death on the Street of Silk, he heard. But still he continued to train with them. Once he heard of that, he stopped holding back on his unblock swings. He wanted to make them suffer what they’ve been spreading through the city. The first night after the attack, he jammed the handle of his hammer so hard into the cunt in front of him, five ribs shattered and pierced his right lung.

One evening, a new recruit stepped up to face him after Gendry just disarmed and broke the sternum of a man much bigger. There was no fear in this newcomer’s eyes, though. He attacked Gendry first, swinging his spiked club around his head and bringing it down, aiming for the knees. Gendry slid both feet backwards to dodge, then side stepped to the left to get a better target and with a turn for momentum, swung his hammer towards the militant’s back. A full impact would have tangled the spine, shattered ribs and pierced the lungs. The man ducked, however, and spun while crouched. He could have hacked at Gendry’s ankles, but he chose not to, only showing him a grin displaying full knowledge of the mercy he gave. He stood and faced off arrogantly, backed in a defensive way, allowing Gendry to make the first move this time. Full with anger at being bested, he charged full force at his opponent, bringing the Warhammer up over his head and aiming for the top of his. The man thrust up his club to block the blow, but being made of a softer wood, it shattered on impact with the head of the hammer. The force hardly deterred the strength behind Gendry’s swing, and it landed with a squish and a thud, almost the entire hammer head buried in this man’s skull.

It was quiet. So quiet, Gendry could hear the collective intake of breath as the crowd witnessed their brother fall and the flow of blood. The body thumped to the ground, and Gendry had to brace the man’s face with his boot to get the hammer out. He looked around, assuming he’d see the rest of them in arms running towards him. They were not; just standing there, some looking at him, some at the slain. After some moments more, Gendry broke the silence with a surprising laugh.

“Sorry. He made me mad.”

One of the faithful brothers stepped forward. “The Gods called him home.” Then with a silent call, the men headed towards the dead sparrow and began to pray. Then they gathered his body and carried him as he lay, three on each side supporting his weight. Together, they went off towards the Sept, with neither a word nor glance towards Gendry. After that, they never came back to train again.

A few months went by, and life resumed as normal as it could in King’s Landing. The streets were much quieter at night though, which made sleep harder to fall upon him. Not that he got much anyways. He trained longer than he used to, now knowing what it felt like to face a person and trying to replicate the movements unthreatened and alone. It defiantly wasn’t the same, and his force was never what it could be when facing someone. With the militants, he gave no fucks if he hurt them. The amount of power he felt when his hammer dug into that cunt’s skull was better than anything else, better than smithin’ or ridin’ or even fuckin’ if he knew what that actually felt like. He felt he had held the decision of life or death in his hands and at that moment, he did.

One evening, he stayed out much longer he had planned on, and dawn had fully settled over the whole city. The streets began to fill rather quickly as the sun started to climb higher. In the short amount of time it took to get back to the shop, the path and alleys were stuffed as the folk of King’s Landing began their days of trading and bartering, buying food for the day and selling livestock next to the bakeries. Before he entered, Gendry overheard a passing conversation by two men, one short, with long greasy dark hair and a beard with bits of food stuck in. The other was much taller, but thinner than a branch from a sickly tree. He had last night’s ale all over his tunic, clearly having heaved it back up this morning. He spoke first, with a high-pitched voice. _Wonder if he’s a eunuch_.

“She confessed, they say, at daybreak. The Queen. She’ll be atoning t’day I think, that’s what they do them sparrows. Need their cells open fer more sinners.”

“Not th’Queen, ya dolt, th’Queen Mother. I wanna see that bitch walk naked so hurry yer long legs.” The short man was almost running.

Confused as to what that was all about, he went to find Master Mott, at his workbench like usual. “What’s happenin’ today? At the Sept.”

“Not sure, my boy, haven’t heard a thing.” Silence followed, with Master Mott getting back to his delicate work and Gendry standing there stupidly, his mouth part way open. The old man looked back up to his apprentice.

“Go find out. Slow working day. Be back before supper t’help me get your blade into this hilt.” With that, Gendry went back out into the daylight, curving around the bottom of the hill to get to the Great Sept’s steps. Close to high sun, he was finally able to squeeze through the crowd to stand at the back of the gathering before the plaza turned back into the city, having to strain to see the figures on the steps. The sun bared down upon the spectators, making the skin of all sticky and glistening. Gendry could feel the sun’s rays burning into his shoulders, yet he stood his ground, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he hoped was truly the Queen. Or Queen Mother, whatever she calls herself. With a bang, the heavy doors of the Sept burst open, Faith Militants spilling out into the steps, followed by septans and septas. The crowd hushed simultaneously. Then, meekly, from behind, out stepped a slender, pale woman. Her blonde hair has been recently steered to the scalp, blood running down her neck, but there was no mistaking who she was. Cersei Lannister, his father’s murderer. A frail looking man stepped forward and began to speak and Gendry guessed him to be the High Sparrow. He couldn’t hear the words, but the reactions from the crowd indicated joy at what they meant. He could make out the man projecting the words “walk of atonement,” and soon after, the women surrounding the queen gripped the top of her basic shift, and tugged it over her shoulders, past her hips to leave her as naked as the day she was born. He couldn’t help but smile at the shame displayed all over the cunt’s face. This powerful woman was now being displayed like the whore she was, for all her subjects to see.

The Faith began to usher her down the steps into the city, on the road to the Red Keep, a Septa not far behind, tolling a bell, proclaiming “shame.” Not long after the atonement began, the folk began to show the bitch what they really thought of her. First words were thrown, then spoiled food. It got out of hand quickly and soon anything you could imagine was flying through the air, aimed right at Cersei. They were coming right towards where he was standing; religious thugs in the front, clearing a path for Her Grace. Before he could take a full breath, they were upon him. He stepped to the right, not wanting to start anything if they were to even touch him. As the Queen Mother trudged past, “shame” following each step, she looked up, seemingly against her better judgement and locked eyes with Gendry. He could tell his appearance rattled her to her core. He’d been told he was a spitting image of his father, and this cunt had been married to him. He locked in on her eyes, forcing her to see who he truly was and vowing to all God’s he will have some part in her death. A rotten apple hit her right in the jaw, pulling her out of the trance. It was but a moment, but that’s all it took. He knew she knew who he was. And he was happy. He hoped she’d hunt him down, that way he’d be able to avenge what she did to his father. A call to action filled his lungs after she passed and for some reason, this felt like the beginning of the end. He turned abruptly and headed back to the shop. He had too much on his mind, and the only solace he could find was in a hammer. Being daylight, he opted for the smaller version, and headed to the anvil and fires to start on a new blade, not yet having a purpose for it once it was completed. He just needed to hit something, and every single swing of the hammer further enforced the undoubtable feeling of hope inside.


	8. Chapter 8

A couple months passed with hardly anything interesting to him happening in the city. The people seemed to have feasted upon Cersei’s atonement and their lust for blood and shame was subdued for the time being, greedily awaiting her trial. The actual Queen had been imprisoned weeks before Cersei, but her atonement was much less exciting. The crowds gathered, but where Gendry was expecting an angry mob, he saw a cheering crowd, in awe of this new age of power just proclaimed. The Crown and the Faith working together. _Piss on all that._ It was both of them the people should hate the most. The presence of the Sparrows in King’s Landing had quickly staunched out his faith, though he kept that information locked. More trouble would come from that than anything at the moment.

Master Mott came to Gendry one evening, with a brighter gleam in his eye, a bundle of cloth under his arms. “My boy, the day has come.” He closed off the curtains to his shop, telling would-be patrons to keep on walking.

“What d’you mean?”

“I had business on the docks. Come have a look boy.”

“What’s it?”

“Quit asking stupid questions and come see for yourself.” So, Gendry did as he was bid and looked at the bundle while his master gingerly folded back a part of the fabric, revealing a glimpse of rippled metal. Before he uncloaked the whole sword, Gendry already knew what was contained within; _Valyrian Steel_.

“Where’d ya get it?” Gendry asked, while picking up the blade. It was much lighter than a normal longsword, but sharper. The texture in the steel seemed to have a life of its own, morphing with every subtle move.

“A man from Quarth, who has been sailing the ten seas, summoned me when he docked in the Blackwater Bay. Wants a new shape with a decorated hilt. It’s time you learn how to do it yourself.”

“How? What? Why did he come t’you?” He didn’t know his master knew this secret.

“Any smart man in Westeros with steel comes t’Tabho Mott now, lad. I’m the only man in the country who knows how t’work the Valyrian Steel and the only man in the world with my quality craftsmanship. When you came back, the swords I was embellishing for Lord Tywin were cast by a Volantene smith in the Red Keep forges. He knew the secret and I coveted it. I found him out, after quite a search, and persuaded him t’share it with me.” Master Mott had Gendry set the blade in the flames, while he himself added more wood, then went to the back, returning with a small vile of something. “Valyrian Steel was made in Old Valyria, thousands of years before us. They used the fire from dragons t’create the steel. Our fires here aren’t hot enough for that, but we do have something that allows us t’cast it” he paused, “but one drop of this, and the flames will burn 20 times hotter, enough t’make the metal run.”

He’d had only heard stories of the substance, from the nightmares of The Mad King, but never thought he would ever see it in person. He still need to make sure that was indeed what he was looking at. “Is that?”

“Wildfire.” Without any more words, his master, donning a thick leather glove that reached up to his shoulder and a visor, uncorked the green liquid, and steadily tipped it little by little, until a tiny drop pooled to the lip of the vile. With one last touch, the drip fell into the flames. The flames expanded, greened, then went quickly back to orange and the room was instantly sweltering. Gendry had to shield his eyes from the light and slowly allow them to adjust before he looked to the sword, not even engulfed in the controlled inferno for a minute and it was already molten and bubbling.  “Valyrian Steel cannot be forged again. It is too strong for any hammer, and goes from solid t’liquid quickly once in the flames. We must cast the sword. Go t’the back room, stacked behind the door. Pick a cast and bring it here.” He did so, and reentered as Master Mott was transferring the liquid metal into a stone cask. “Put it down here,” he gestured to the worktable next to it. Very carefully, he handled the molten Valyrian Steel with tongs and carried it from the forge to the metal stand in front of the cast. He tipped it on its side with the handle and the steel poured into the cast, forming a river while flowing to the tip. The cast was filled and the steel all within, beginning to cool.

“So, once it’s cooled, we shape, sharpen and polish?” Gendry rubbed the sweat off his neck.

“No need t’shape it, boy. It knows what shape t’take. But sharpen and polish, yes. Take this.” He tossed over a black block. He knew what it was.

“Obsidian. Only thing strong enough. It will take many hours t’sharpen that blade and twice the strength, but once complete, a whetstone will never be needed again. Not many folks in the world know this process, boy, and this will be the only lesson you’re likely t’ever get. Remember how it’s done. One day it will be useful. I promise you that.”

The process was wrong to him. Normally, steel becomes brittle and weak when treated this way. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The ripples in the metal are known to the common folk to come from magic, but any man that works with metal daily knows that is a clear sign of two metals combined together. The mixture of metals creates a whole new metal, an alloy, and in the case of Valyrian Steel, lighter and much stronger than the steel or other metal combined to make it. The strength created was enough to withstand the extremes of this process. The reason the secret of Valyrian Steel was lost was because the writings that stated the other material used to make it suffered the same fate as its extraordinary city.

“This is precious, Gendry. Simple, but precious. You could be the only person that knows it one day, should the Gods be just. The sword will be ready for th’whetstone a day from now. The man from Quarth will return t’the docks the day after. I’ll only design the hilt. I leave the rest of this in your hands, lad.” He retired up to his quarters, leaving Gendry to clean up after the day’s work. With every pass by the work table, he glanced down to watch the metal cool for a moment before continuing on. Once the shop was ready for tomorrow, where he’ll be sharpening and his master creating a hilt, he changed into more movable garb and made his way down to train once again.

Just as his master said, it took him all day to sharpen the blade. Gendry gave up many times in frustration, throwing the whetstone and huffing out into the street to cool his nerves. He always came back to continue his work. In the late afternoon, he carefully pounded the intricate hilt securely in place, polished it, then Master Mott worked his artistry to finish the sword. It was magnificent when complete; a piece he didn’t care to part with, but the man at the dock was paying well and would be waiting for it in the morn.

In the harbor, you could still hear the bells from the Great Sept, tolling a beacon of something he cared not for. Amongst the fisherfolk and sailors, a large dark man with a purple triangular beard and bald head patiently glazed into the horizon, his cloth of silver and Myrish lace garb floating in the breeze. Figuring he looked the most like a foreigner, he approached him, grasping the sheathed sword in his fist.

“You come for th’Valyrian Steel?”

“Why yes, I do. You aren’t the man I gave the sword to, though. I hope there is no blood on my hands,” the man replied, with a smooth, husky voice, inviting and alluring in some odd way.

“Tabho Mott is my master.”

The man looked Gendry up and down, and he couldn’t help but notice the slight linger the man gave to his manhood. Blood rushed to his face and he shifted the weight to get him to lock eyes. The man had a wicked grin. “It is complete, I assume?” Gendry said nothing, just unsheathed the sword and presented it before the strange man. Once the sword was in the foreigner’s hand, he tossed over a sack of coins, 200 dragons, into his chest, all while inspecting the weapon. Before any praise was spoken, a deafening boom erupted behind him, pushing the two men a couple footsteps off balance. They both turned to see Visenya’s Hill engulfed in a green explosion, lime colored flames shooting from the base as dark smoke shot up towards the heavens. _Wildfire._ He was only introduced to its ignited form two nights ago, but the spectacle was unmistakable. The entirety of the Great Sept of Balor was replaced by fire, the surrounding shops and homes at the base of the hill on fire as well, or gone. In a single heartbeat, Gendry’s life in King’s Landing was completely changed. The shop was right under the hill. _What did his Master just do?_

As the city was running and screaming their way from the carnage to the sea, Gendry went towards it. He dashed down the Street to Steel, seeing it mostly unscathed at the start, yet as he got closer towards the top, the scene changed horrifically. Some buildings closest to the base were flattened, while others merely in ruins, all aflame. Dead bodies, crushed or burned, littered the street while screams, cries, and wails bombarded his ears until all was death. Large rubble and debris clogged the route he normally took to his master’s shop, so he went around, pushing past broken women and fearful men. He had to jump over the body of a man he said hello to in passing just this morning. He finally got to the curve that the shop was on, but he stopped in his tracks. There was nothing there and no way that little vile of wildfire could destroy this much. The force had fractured off a side of the hill, which slid down right to where he worked and lived. It was now a sheet of stone and dirt that destroyed the structures and buried all within, including his Master. He just stood there, staring at this mass grave. For some strange reason, he felt nothing. He had lost so much from this royal family, but it now seemed to be so horribly normal and he turned to look at the flames raging high above him. It was beautiful.


	9. Chapter 9

House Lannister had taken everything away from him. First, Cersei and that militant Lannister murdered his father, then that Joffery bastard put a warrant on his head, sending him on the run. Then the Lannister soldiers captured him and almost killed him by torture at Harrenhal. Then once he was starting to finally settle in to his master’s shop and being back in this city, the cunt flattened it with her wildfire. And they took even more from the only person he could call family.  After she blew up the Great Sept of Balor like a mad Queen, the King threw himself from the Red Keep because his wife Queen Margery had been inside. It was confirmed that Cersei wiped out the Tyrell House, save for the old Queen of Thornes, but what did he care about some stupid House? Cersei was the problem. The cunt made herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, when in reality, she had grasp of maybe three and her contempt at not having full control was inflicted upon the people of King’s Landing.

                News finally arrived to the common folk of the death of Balon Greyjoy, murdered by his brother for the Salt Throne during a storm over Pyke. _The Usurper Balon Greyjoy_ , the winds whispered when he first heard. His trio of blood murders is complete. Every once in a while, memories of that night would haunt his sleep, forcing him to wake abruptly, a chill over his sweat covered body, his breath coming in short and the feel of leeches all over his skin. He was forever damaged by that night, he knew, refusing to trust anyone who came along and never wanting to feel that physically close to a woman again. His once healthy desire for lusty companionship was non-existent. He preferred to keep to himself since then, to eliminate any vulnerability someone might prey upon.

He heard that Jon Snow took back the North from the Bolton’s and restored the seat of Winterfell to House Stark once again, along with his sister. Not the right sister though. No word of her was mentioned in any conversation he overheard and joined in on. He knew her though, and if there was a fight, she would have been in it. Her name not being included wasn’t an easy thing to bare. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her in a couple years; it had just been too painful before. He betrayed her and let her down in almost every way he could have and the thought was always too difficult for him to come to terms with. It was easier to forget and move on. But right now, he wanted to remember her. He left his training spot and headed back to his shop. A properly working smithy abandoned after the Great Sept, he entered through the threshold to be immediately greeted by the forge. To the right was his workbench, with tools strewn on top and extra materials underneath. He kept his personal belongings under there as well. He had carried all that coin on him, and combined with the payment for the Valaryian Steel sword, he had enough for anything he could possibly need for his new shop, on top of the ridiculous taxes the new Queen had issued throughout the city. His cot was in the back, away from any glimpse of the outside. He sat down, relaxing his body back so his shoulders could rest against wood and brought his legs onto the bed. Once he was comfortable he let his mind fully take in the joyful memories of Arry.

His lips pulled up into a smile, remembering when he told her he knew she was a girl. He had known the second day of being around her, but didn’t tell her until later. She shoved him when he called her m’lady. So quick to anger she was, much like him. He kept Lommey and Hot Pie off her back that first day, and since then, she clung to him like piglets to their momma. Once she told Gendry who she was, though, she found the courage to curl up with him at nights for warmth, jamming her boney arse into his stomach instead of shivering. He’d always shift to his back out of annoyance and she would tuck into his side. In truth, he didn’t mind. They’d always awake entangled. She told him often that he reminded her of her bastard brother, Jon Snow, and considering he just reclaimed a bloody castle, he now felt honored by the comparison. She was like a sister, his family, and he missed her. He missed her so much. Her eyes, her verbal bite, her recklessness. He tried to recall her voice, full of confidence and resolve, but he couldn’t. He heard the words her ghostly mouth made, but the sound was off. Too much of a Southron, common voice for a Northron highborn. The pitch was wrong too, much more mature and deep than it should have been. What would she look like now? Probably have the same short hair but a womanly face and body no doubt, donning men’s garb, sword at her side. He would have made her another Needle, he thought, with a small grin as he tried to recall the design and balance of her little blade. _Lannisters still have that too_ , he remembered, shifting his mind to the Queen who destroyed his life as he knew it, thrice over. She destroyed Arry’s life too.

He could feel his chest tighten and the familiar sting of unwanted tears suddenly invading his eyes. Even good thoughts of Arry brought him nothing but pain eventually. It was too soon--would probably always be too soon--to allow himself to remember the past; to think of his family, long gone. He shifted his mind back to Cersei Lannister. Arry would say her name every night, her whole list of names, but however much it changed over the year and a half he was with her, she was always second. A cloud of vengeance began to expand over his entire body, filling every inch of him with the lust for revenge. Cersei was a demon in disguise and the root of all evil the Seven Kingdoms had endured in recent years. She had to be stopped, one way or another, and he just knew he would be there to help bring her down. As much as he wanted to stroll right up to the Red Keep with his Warhammer, kill every single guard and knight who stood in his way, to wrap his strong fingers around her pale throat, and watch as the light left her eyes…it just wouldn’t be possible. He would be the first casualty.

He sat up and looked around the room as he accepted that sleep would not come tonight. His eyes stopped at the Warhammer, resting in its designated space on the wooden beam close to the threshold of the forge. It was always kept there for easy access. It was basic and plain, all black and almost completely undecorated. It did the job, and did it well, but it still didn’t seem to be his. It was still a hammer he randomly found in his old master’s shop. He crossed the dirt floor to stare more intently at his weapon of choice. The head was still in good shape, showing the normal wear and tear a well wielded weapon would have, but the dye on the handle was almost all faded where his grip went and was starting to splinter. He grabbed the Warhammer and rushed to his box of tools to grab a heavier work hammer and a vice. Once in place, it took only three good hits to completely remove the head from the handle. He tossed the shitty wood to the side, and went to the rack where premade hilts, blades, scabbards, and other materials lay waiting. He searched through his stash, and found a heavy oak rod, fashioned from a branch that grew from what was a sturdy and solid tree. He went to work straight away. Finding his wood working tools, he sat down at his work bench and started to coarsely file away, shaping the rod into a handle. Not much was needed since the entire weapon would require the full strength of the oak, thus he opted for a small indentation in the center of the shaft for a better grip in close quarter swings. Once it was shaped in a way that felt right, he took a sanding block to rough up the exterior for the sealant to better adhere once he wrapped it in boiled leather. For an even better feel in his fists, he wound woolen twine around the grip, giving more traction for more forceful swings. Then, for some style, he crisscrossed leather line down the handle that would all be covered with leather. He grasped the grip, and was immediately pissed at his stupidity. He could distinctly feel the crossed leather line that would absolutely be an issue in eventual fights. Decoration was only good if it didn’t inhibit whoever wielded the weapon. He unwound the leather line and wool twine, beginning first with the decorations, then adding the grip. He decided to repeat the wrapped wool twine at the very top and bottom of the handle as well. The end of the hammer still didn’t look right; just abruptly ending with the ends of the small ropes dangling. He knew what was needed though he’d attach it once the boiled leather was sealed and cooled; but to finish prepping the handle, he bored holes into both end.

Dawn was breaking as he set down the fully ragged and twine wrapped shaft, ready for the next step. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his shoulders, looking at what he completed that night with pride yet impatience. He wanted it to be finished now. With sore muscles and heavy lids, he walked around the shop, searching for some leather to continue on his task. He found some, but it was hardly enough to wrap around the base. Frustrated, he threw the small patch of dark leather across the room, though it didn’t go far. Gendry went to his rucksack near the cot, getting a change of clothing, donning it, then heading out in the morning rush to make his way towards a leather merchant he knew of near the Old Gate, right in the shadow of the disintegrating Dragon Pit.

Inside the shop were hundreds of hides and pelts, from all different animals with different finishes. He picked up some thin tanned bull hide and ran his fingers over the skin, discovering it to be the perfect feel. The amount he needed for his Warhammer was only 20 coppers, but he handed four dragons to the wide eyed, barrel-chested man, who kneeled down, kissed his hands and blessed him to every god he knew of. It was the least he could do. With Highgarden no longer behind the Crown, King’s Landing had lost its daily shipments of grain, wheat, and barley. The livestock coming in looked sicker than the ones going out, and the people around him were suffering. As he exited the merchant’s hut, leather bundled in a cross-strap bag, Gendry closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them, misery was all he could see. The people of this city were dying, starving, wasting, and begging while the Queen stayed in her keep, laughing. Fully inspired to complete the weapon, he rushed back to his shop, near the top of the street of Steel.

When he was back at the workbench he immediately put a pot of water over the flames to get it going. While the water got hotter and hotter and bubbles started to escape to the top, he laid out the bull hide, and cut them into long, hand width strips. He always hated working with leather; it moved around and when he made a mistake, there was no way to un-make it. Once he had all the leather cut, he worked slowly and methodically, like his master did when working with hilts, making sure every move was exact. He carefully punched holes at the ends of each strip and securely sewed them together with the leather line to form one long band. The water was fully boiling by the time the leather was placed in. While he waited until it was workable, he grabbed the new handle and began to delicately slather it in sealant. He donned thick leather gloves while pulling the steaming hide out of the cauldron with tongs, really hoping to not burn himself like he did the last time he worked it. He sat down at his workbench and began to wrap the handle, taking his time to make sure the hide was flush with the wood, decorations and grip, eliminating air bubbles, and making it as taut as he could to cover the embellishments yet not distort the design. As he got to the end of the handle, he cut off the excess and nailed the ends securely in place inside the bored holes. Gendry placed it on a rack to cool. He shifted his stance and turned his head to stare at the hammer itself; it really didn’t need much work. With a cloth and oil, he buffed out the scratches and nicks, eliminating all visible signs that this weapon had been an extension of his arm every night for years, making it shine. He then went to look for the other feature he wanted for his Warhammer; a steel pommel end. He knocked the hilt off an old long sword that had rusted over with age and began to saw off the pommel. After cleaning and polishing, he placed it in the bored hole as far as he could with his hand. With a wool mallet, he pounded the pommel into the handle until it was flush and solidly in place. It was the perfect touch, adding extra protection from a rear attack.

The leather was now cool enough to allow Gendry to attach the head to the body. With all his strength behind the mallet, some sealant, and any patience he could muster, he pounded the head into place. Every swing only lowered the head a hair’s width down the handle at a time, but after hours of repeated hits, it was intact and whole. He stared at his Warhammer for a long time. When he picked it up, it felt like it was apart of him, though it just wasn’t complete. He thought of his father, holding his own custom Warhammer and he knew what was missing. In his stores, he found identical small lightweight bronze slabs. With a graphite stick he marked out the same shape on each, then began to saw off large unnecessary pieces. Once he removed all he could that way, he placed one bronze piece into the flames to soften it. With tongs, he carefully pulled it from the heat and onto the anvil. He removed more of the metal, using heavy duty shears and a fine file. The shape finally became what he wanted, so he moved on to the sculpting. With smaller, more precise detail hammers, all with different shaped heads, he started to pound on the metal, starting first with the nose. Hours went by and Gendry had to repeatedly return the bust to the flames to keep working on it. He wanted to get every detail right; he had to get them right. This was for his father, Robert of the House Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms. Well past the time to sup, he started work on the second bronze piece.

To weld the completed stags to the sides of the hammer head, he dabbed on a more common substance than wildfire onto the back side of the ornament and positioned it just so on the head. With flint and his steel dirk, he sent a spark down and it landed with a flash and pop. When the smoke cleared, the bronze stag was adhered to the hammer. He repeated the process on the other side, then paused so the metal could cool. He decided to stain the leather while he waited, choosing a cherry finish at random, then grabbed polish for the pommel and head. A full day later, and it was done. It was utterly and completely his weapon, something he knew very well and was extremely good with. The pride of his craftsmanship and lineage swelling within, filling him to the brim with excitement and eagerness to use it. He bound outside with his glory in his grasp once he saw his street empty and dark. He looked up to find stars filling the black sky, turning cobalt in the east and realized it to be very early in the morning. He had worked for over a day on his Warhammer and a full day before that with no sleep, and the weight of it began to feel too heavy. He headed back inside and placed his hammer on its hook then he slumped in his bed and fell asleep within seconds. He had one of the best night’s sleep he could ever recall.


	10. Chapter 10

The Age of the Lion, most people were calling it; the Second Conquering is what others dubbed. Colder winds from the North began to plague the city daily now, along with news from the East. Danaerys Stormborn, the last Targaryen, was sailing to Westeros with her army and three dragons. He’d listen to random rumors about them before but always dismissed them as tales. Now, he heard the news every time someone entered his shop and almost constantly when he left. His only break from the talk was during his nightly training. He felt at one with his hammer, being able to practice with it was, in some ways, like a dance. He had contemplated starting to train in the sun, to show off his progress and expertise to anyone who would watch, but couldn’t risk revealing his secret by the Warhammer he used and the man he resembled.  

In his shop, Gendry sold a variety of goods for the folk who still lived in King’s Landing, though the crowds became less and less as the weeks went by, either fleeing or dying. Most believed this Dragon Queen was going to come to the city, burning all alive or force the country into submission. He wasn’t going to flee; his enemy was still locked away in a tower. He kept himself busy with work, not allowing himself much free time to avoid foolish thoughts of bravery or fear. He even started to forge metal cups and more basic knives to encourage sales and to stay occupied. He had so much inventory and still over half the Gold Dragons that he began to charge based on peoples’ manners over the quality of the item, always finding the higher born to be the most likely to end up paying triple. He was the most visited shop on the Street of Steel and was proud at what he accomplished over the years.

On a day like any other, Gendry was at work on a custom knife set for a woman who gave him a heel of bread every morning for the past couple months. Mid-morning, he heard the distinct sound of unison footsteps rumbling under the ring of steel and looked up from his work to see a patrol of Gold Cloaks, making their way through all shops on the Street of Steel. Three men in golden armor approached the smith in a triangular formation, the man at point addressing Gendry.

“This shop yours?”

“Aye.” He looked him dead in the eyes.

“A decree from her Majesty the Queen,” he handed him a sealed scroll. “All smiths within the limits of King’s Landing are hereby subject to Her Grace, employed to arm her forces for the wars to come.”

“Ya jokin’?” Gendry asked, in angry disbelief. “She doesn’t own me.”

The Gold Cloak took a threatening step towards him, putting one hand on the grip of his sword; the other jabbed a finger in his chest. “This isn’t a request, smith, it’s an order. Do as you’re decreed, or I’ll have your head on a pike before noon.” Gendry felt his Warhammer call to him from its place across the forge and had to clench his jaw and fists to resist the urge to crack their skulls open. A couple more gold cunts stalked to the entrance of his shop, each preparing themselves for a brawl. There were too many of them and it would just be a waste.

He took the sealed scroll from the gold-headed bastard and opened it, shaking his head. “I can’t read it, Ser.” He didn’t even take it back before he began to recite the words, obviously having to do this a few times before.

_I, Cersei of the House Lannister, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm enlist your skills. The daughter of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryan II, has landed on our soil and is currently preparing for war. Your labor is required. Below is a list of weapons and arms needed for the Lannister armies who will defeat the would-be Usurper._

_Longswords_

_Broadswords_

_Dirks_

_Daggers_

_Spearheads_

_Arrowheads_

_Scorpion Bolts_

_Lobster Plates_

_Chest Plates_

_Helms_

_Horseshoes_

_Spurs_

_Six of each are expected daily and will be collected every evening before nightfall. Failure to comply will result in immediate execution._

 

The man never took his eyes from Gendry as he spoke, praying for him to refuse the call. Gendry bowed his head and smiled. “As the Queen commands.” After another intense stare down, the fuckers finally left his shop and moved on to the next one. All he could do was stand there, unmoving, breathing the fury out and trying to relax enough to not take up arms and run out of his smithy after them.

                What an impossible, selfish, evil cunt. He crumbled the decree and threw it in the flames. He had no choice and nowhere outside the city to go. Violently, she shoved the knife set off the work bench and crossed to his inventory to start completing his bloody quota for his father’s killer. He contemplated weakening all the weapons, but couldn’t bring himself to make faulty ones, even for the enemy.

For the next month or so, Gendry slaved away for his enemy, completing every single stupid thing for Cersei while also working on personal projects and continuing to train. At nights, he was fighting the men he was arming, each swing of his Warhammer hitting an imaginary soldier wearing the stupid crimson armor he was tired of looking at; some nights it was Cersei. Something felt different though, a singular, fleeting, happy felling. He could never fully understand what it was, but it reminded him of safety and home, like it was closer than it had ever been before.

This night, instead of heading straight back to his smithy for sleep, he laid down where he trained; a small patch of dirt where a building once stood, drowning amongst the whole city. With the Warhammer tucked in his side, he stared up into the stars, into the world. He thought about nothing, yet somehow, he thought about everything at the same time. His mum popped up, her face clear as day with dirty yellow waves knotted on the top on her head. He started to hum the song she sung for him every night. The words were no longer recallable, but the tune would forever live in his memory. His thoughts expanded, starting to dwell on philosophical views usually accompanying the minds of maesters. The world was so big and so small at the same time, full of life and death, summer and winter. It was always at war with itself, it seemed; competing through nature to win the favors of the Gods. So much has happened in his one-and-twenty years, he’d felt like he’d seen the whole world, when in reality, he’s hardly gone anywhere. It bothered him endlessly, and if, for some reason, he makes it through winter, he wanted to see it all.

Not a week went by when Gendry heard the reports. After the Kingslayer and the Lannister forces sacked Highgarden, Danaerys, her Dothraki, and one of her dragons ambushed them on their glorious return. Most of the grain and food pillaged was destroyed along with over half of Cersei’s army. As much as that meant death to many folks he shared a city with, including himself, he couldn’t help but feel giddy at Cersei losing this war. He started to work on the last broadsword he needed done so he could move onto horseshoes; placing the hiltless blade into the flames. Once it was glowing red and orange, he moved it to the anvil to begin the hammering into shape. He repeated the process over and over until the sword was completely forged, then dunked the scorching blade into a bucket of water, tempering the steel and making it strong. Leaving the anvil, he headed back to his workbench to buff and polish the blade when he heard footsteps approach from behind.

“Wasn’t sure I’d find ya,” a gruff, familiar voice sounded. Gendry stopped what he was doing, not believing his ears. He turned his head to see Ser Davos Seaworth standing in his shop, looking just as he had many years ago. “Thought you’d might still be rowing.”


End file.
